


Blame it on the Falling Sky

by Argyle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They keep meeting in all the wrong places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the Falling Sky

They keep meeting in all the wrong places.

Off-work, on the up-and-up. A cafe in Portland, nearly noon on a Tuesday. A racetrack in Reno, and again, a week later at an off-Strip hotel in Vegas where Arthur told Eames he was doing research but was really just killing time until his next job.

And now, en route to another: Arthur all but nailed to his stool in the executive lounge at O'Hare, and Eames there too, full of gin and that fucking signature _levity_ of his, like there's nothing in all the world but this moment right here.

"Well?" Eames is saying, leaning in a little too close, daring Arthur to acknowledge that they'd already been sitting next to each other for the better part of twenty minutes, and hadn't one of them better _say_ something already?

The space between them is almost natural. And it takes all of Arthur's concentration not to let his guard down. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were following me."

But Eames shrugs this off. "Yes, well. What brings you to town?"

"I'm _leaving_ town," Arthur corrects. "My flight's in an hour."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Is there a difference?"

"For most people there is," says Eames. He drains his glass, then nods to the bartender for another. "Have you forgotten what it means to be normal?"

Arthur rolls his shoulders. He feels a headache coming on. It's a spur in the back of his neck, right at the base, just like it always is. "You're one to talk. I don't think you'd know normal if it open-mouth kissed you under a bridge."

Eames lets out an appreciative hum. "That sounds more than normal, dear."

"Yeah?" Arthur says. Then, after a moment: "I've gotta go." He pays his tab. Signs his name with a flourish. And when he looks up, Eames' eyes are still on him. "See you around."

Eames nods. "Sooner than you think, I'm sure."

This turns out to be true. Arthur is among the first people on the plane, and not wanting to leave his much-needed REM to chance, he pops a sleeping pill well before the cabin door closes.

Then there's Eames, among the last on. He sits right behind Arthur, and leans close to Arthur's headrest to murmur round the curve, "Santa Barbara by way of LA?"

"Yeah," Arthur says.

"Lovely."

Arthur doesn't respond. But he's thinking this: fucking _Cobb_.

Thankfully he manages to snooze through most of the flight, not noticing (or not really) the _tap tap tapping_ of Eames' foot on the underside of his seat. But he does take note of the low drone of _The Bends_ eking out of Eames' headphones.

He tries to find some fault in Eames' taste this time, but can't.

*

Arthur's not foolish enough to think it's all a coincidence. People don't just keep running into each other like this -- his life's not some Hollywood comedy.

But after seventy-two hours spent thwarting the worst sort of militarized projections, the fact that he and Eames both end up in the same dodgy diner half an hour out of town down the 101 -- well, it's more of a comfort than Arthur cares to admit.

Arthur orders a shortstack, but really only drinks his coffee. Eames sticks to cigarettes. When he goes to light his fifth on the dog-end of his fourth, his hands are shaking, just a bit.

This time, there really isn't anything to say. They just feed the old jukebox until dawn streams low through the dusty windows.

*

The time after that, it really _is_ research.

Why else would Arthur be holed up in the London Library on a Saturday morning? Sure, it's raining -- but Arthur's certain he could find something more worthy of his engagement. Maybe a breakfast somewhere with actual table linens, or a ride up to Chelsea to take in a gallery or two--

"Damn," he murmurs, scratching his empty pen down the corner of the page. A minute or two of halfhearted searching for a replacement later, he takes it as an omen: the idea of breakfast becomes an imminent threat.

He scoops up the books -- mostly compendiums on Yorkshire stately houses and the inter-workings thereof -- and trucks them back to the stacks, re-shelving them exactly so that he'll be sure to find them again later.

It's there that Arthur nudges through a narrow row, shuffling past another patron.

Another patron who is Eames.

"Why?" he asks shortly, wanting to get right to the point.

Eames turns round. There's a grin that stretches his mouth in the usual way, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Why don't you ever answer your bloody mobile?"

"What?" And apparently Arthur has been reduced to one-syllable responses. No, that won't work. "Get the hell out of the way, Eames."

Eames just steps closer, moving in until Arthur's back is against the shelf and his arms are tucked up at his chest, clutching the rest of his books like they'll ward off the demonic presence of this confounding, _ridiculous_ , rather well dressed (for once) shithead.

Arthur blinks, suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot and shifty. And frankly, pissed off. "You've got a lot of nerve. I bet you're here just to sniff out another gig, and you know what? You can forget it. I'm not telling you anything."

"Have you quite finished?" says Eames. With that, his expression seems to soften. Arthur realizes that his eyes are redder than usual, but that's probably just sleeplessness or drugs or--

"Yeah," Arthur says, lamely.

Eames nods, once. "Good. Because we're going."

"Where?" Damn it, but Arthur was really ready to just have some nice crepes with strawberries or something. He'd even have settled for eggs and fried mushrooms. He won't follow Eames. There's no way.

"To my car." Eames begins walking down the isle. "It's Mal."

Arthur abandons the books on the nearest shelf. "What has she gotten into now?"

*

Arthur's natural dreams are much like the ones he has when he's plugged in. That is to say, they're mostly empty, and they mostly take place at night.

Which makes this pretty weird: Asbury Park in mid-October, the day still bright enough to ensure he'll be sunburned by the end of it. It's also breezy and almost cool.

He's aware, vaguely, that Mal has died.

But this isn't any excuse for aftermath. So he huddles into a blazer and scarf he hasn't owned in at least a decade, walks down that measly excuse for a boardwalk, and just breathes in brimming lungfuls of the salt air.

And well beneath that, Eames' cologne, musky in a way that walks a narrow line between trashy and absolutely delicious, the way that's unmistakably _Eames_.

The way that forms a low coil in Arthur's belly, then traces down to his cock.

Eames is there with him, of course he is, and they're staring out at the seaweed-covered beach: a nor'easter brought up all that and more, but the water is clearer than Arthur remembers it ever being.

The thing is, he doesn't really give a damn about the beach.

Arthur leans in to nuzzle at Eames' throat, wanting more of that musk. Eames' hands are on Arthur's back and he holds Arthur close, really too close, but Arthur takes it as a chance to lick, then nip his way down Eames' exposed throat, all the way to the hollow at his collarbone.

It's funny the way things happen in dreams. Really fucking hilarious.

Logic just skips at the drop of a hat.

In a moment, Eames' hands are working at Arthur's belt and zip, and then Eames' warm, dry hand has the whole length of Arthur's cock in a grip that isn't firm enough, but will somehow do. Eames pumps him. And Arthur leans closer.

"I wanted this, you know," he huffs, not really thinking about it.

"Yes," Eames agrees. "I know."

He knows. He knows how to handle Arthur, how to get him off quick and easy, speeding up as Arthur's breath hitches heavy in this chest, and Arthur might as well be fourteen again. He can't last.

Arthur doesn't want to wake up then, when he comes. But he does.

*

"Is this seat taken?"

Eames looks up at him, a little incredulous. It's a classic _you've got to be fucking kidding me_. But he just says, "There's no denying some people."

"In my defense, the bar's packed. This is why I never fly on Sundays," says Arthur, sliding onto the chair to the other side of the table.

"And here I thought it was your pious nature."

Arthur allows himself the luxury of a smile. It's too easy. But he's only halfway to Prague, and he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in a week. "The monastery let me out early. Good behavior."

"Mm." Eames nods. "And you choose drink before more... carnal entertainments. A man after my own heart."

"Who says I can't have both?"

Just then, the waiter swings over to their table. Arthur orders a pint of whatever's local.

"And one for me," Eames adds. And when they're alone again, "Been freelancing, have you?"

"I always freelance."

"Yes, well. I meant -- you've been working without the guidance of our mutual friend Mr. Cobb?"

Arthur shrugs. "Cobb's been preoccupied. That doesn't mean _I_ should have to go broke."

"But perhaps you're in need of some professional guidance?"

"I don't think so."

"Then the company of a fellow traveler, hmm?"

Arthur studies him. "You can't be _that_ bored, Eames."

"I'm not," Eames agrees. Then he nods towards a gawky looking man at the bar. "But he is."

"No."

"He's an architect. Name of Nash. I think you'll get on splendidly -- you see, he's an expert in post-Bloc structural engineering." Then, as their beers arrive, and after a long sip, "As much as one can be."

"Uh, uh," says Arthur. He tries that _you've got to be fucking kidding me_ look out on Eames, but he knows it's closer to _you're gonna owe me big time_.

The corners of Eames' lips turn up. "Yes, Arthur. Imagine what you'll accomplish with a man like me in your debt."

Arthur _can_ imagine. But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

Only some of it.


End file.
